


somebody waits for you (kiss him once for me)

by infalliblefandoms



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Handcuffed Together, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infalliblefandoms/pseuds/infalliblefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire, Enjolras and their 'Get Along' shirt: a courtship.</p><p>Courfeyrac decides that the greatest Christmas gift of all would be for Enjolras and Grantaire to finally make out. Obviously the only way for this to happen is to make them a giant sweatshirt declaring 'OUR GET ALONG SHIRT'.</p><p>It works out pretty splendidly, if he says so himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somebody waits for you (kiss him once for me)

 

 

 

It happens _every time_.

 

Enjolras isn't sure why he even attends his friends' 'casual gatherings' anymore. He knows what's coming. He should be thoroughly conditioned by now, wary like a cat is of a spray bottle. He should know, at this point, not to touch their parties with a barge pole. Especially Courferyac's.

 

The thing with Courfeyrac is this: when he gets an idea into his head he's like a dog with a bone. A big, overexcited dog with a lolling tongue and wagging tail. The tongue part is literal. It happens. (Also why so many pet analogies?)

 

The issue here is that Courfeyrac has decided that Enjolras has a crush. He's also decided that Enjolras needs " _romantic guidance"_ , and is the self-appointed man for the job.

 

Hence, the 'Get Along' shirt.

 

Hence, Enjolras ending up stripped of any semblance of personal space, sharing a baggy sweatshirt with Grantaire. On multiple occasions. There are also handcuffs involved at one point. Courfeyrac is unquestionably the most diabolical bastard Enjolras has ever met. 

 

But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

 

 

`*`

 

 

Enjolras starts his week off on entirely the wrong foot.

 

His alarm clock fails him for the first time in two years, he's late for a brunch date with Cosette and Feuilly, and Courfeyrac keeps posting pictures of Grantaire playing with kittens on Facebook. It's just all a bit much, really. 

 

(And he certainly doesn't save all of the kitten photos to his phone for safe keeping. He _absolutely_ doesn't set the one of Grantaire grinning up at the tiny little grey thing perched atop his head - he thinks that one's called Wolf - as it chews on a stray curl, as his lock screen.)

 

He manages to make it through the day relatively unscathed, and arrives at Bahorel and Feuilly's place for an 'informal get-together' only a fashionable 20 minutes late.

 

Jehan is standing on the couch, juggling kiwi fruits and belting out 'It Must Have Been Love', while Courfeyrac dances around the room wearing only his underwear and a gaping hawaiian shirt, sipping sparkling wine out of a measuring cup.

 

Enjolras sighs dramatically, and hopes it conveys just how unimpressed he is to everyone within earshot, before flopping down next to Combeferre on the love seat.

 

He sits through three rounds of horrific karaoke (seeing Joly give Bossuet a lap dance to 'Touch My Body' is something he could've lived without), and witnesses Bahorel licking lime juice from Feuilly's fingers with some absolutely transparent 'come hither' eyes. (The next time either of them gets shirty over being mistaken for a couple, Enjolras is probably going to have to break something.)

 

By the time he's finished his third glass of red, Combeferre has long since abandoned him for Eponine, is happily being hand fed grapes with his head in her lap (sickening), and Grantaire has settled himself onto the couch beside Enjolras.

 

He smells like soap and woodsmoke and Enjolras finds this very offensive. He's also started growing out his stubble into an actual beard and is wearing a ridiculous oversized t-shirt with a gaping neckline that shows off his sharp collarbones. Grantaire is a very rude human, quite frankly, and Enjolras can't be blamed for being a bit snappy. And then Grantaire tugs down the t-shirt to scratch at his shoulder and ok, that's a lot of bare skin, and Enjolras' brain, in it's mashed-potato state, might make him say a few unkind things. And Grantaire might pout, and Enjolras might slip into a little daydream about biting Grantaire's bottom lip, and he might also find Grantaire unbearably cute when he's sulking - crossing his arms and hunching down in his too-big shirt.

 

He might not be too put out at all when Courfeyrac suddenly appears in front of them with a huge sweatshirt declaring ' _OUR GET ALONG SHIRT_ ' in bold red marker.

 

 

`*`

 

 

The second time it happens, they're all babysitting kittens.

 

Bahorel and Feuilly have always wanted cats, but have never had the space nor the resources to own any. A true tragedy, really, because every cat they've ever met wants to be adopted by them and enjoy their completely "platonic" cuddle piles for the rest of eternity. 

 

To remedy this gross injustice, Courfeyrac owns four tiny ( _read: terrifying_ ) kittens. Enjolras suspects that Courfeyrac also saw the kittens as an opportunity to lure his friends into spending all their free time at his apartment. And as fluffy little wooing devices to help him in his quest to romance Jehan. 

 

Enjolras suspects the latter has been working, when he walks in on the two of them in the kitchen. Courfeyrac's hand is hidden somewhere well beneath Jehan's sweater and the kettle is whistling loudly in the background, completely unnoticed.

 

Of course, he doesn't even get the chance to open his mouth before Grantaire is strolling in, smirking and whispering something in Courfeyrac's ear that has both him and Jehan blushing.

 

"Ah, Enjolras, _darling_. How's everything? Here, I'll make you some tea. No sugar - because _you're sweet enough already._ " He's wearing black skinny jeans and combat boots and Enjolras feels his chest constrict to the point of discomfort and blames that for the way he responds.

 

"The use of endearments implies there's affection between us, R."

 

Courfeyrac and Jehan leave hand in hand, though Enjolras barely registers their exit.

 

"And there's not?"

 

"Very little." Enjolras scoffs and tosses his hair, because he's an asshole like that.

 

"Right. Here's your drink." 

 

Enjolras takes a sip as Grantaire brushes past him into the living room. He shivers when their arms touch.

 

"There's sugar in this," he calls, frowning at the taste of the cloying, milky tea.

 

"Indeed. Thought you could fucking use it," Grantaire replies without glancing back.

 

It's not until later, when Grantaire snaps at him for hogging Herodotus - the fluffy ginger one that actually seems quite enamoured with Enjolras, where the others are hostile - that Courfeyrac appears before them, tapping his foot sternly and holding out a poorly folded lump of material. Enjolras takes it, unfolds it, stares resentfully at it for a few minutes, before shrugging it on with a loud, put-out sigh and a chastising glare in Grantaire's direction. Grantaire, to his credit, simply prises Wolf from his shoulder and shuffles over to where Enjolras is sitting.

 

He scratches at his beard a little before huffing and lifting the hem. Enjolras looks away as Grantaire shoves his head through. His beard is surprisingly soft against Enjolras' neck. Grantaire tries to readjust his legs, but miscalculates and ends up landing awkwardly in Enjolras' lap with an embarrassed squeak. The shirt is big, but it's not generous enough to allow ample sitting room for two. Enjolras is about to say something - to Grantaire or Courfeyrac or one of the other people he's certain are in the room somewhere but can't quite seem to focus on, he's not quite sure - when a small weight makes itself known on his thigh.

 

Grantaire looks down at the same time Enjolras does, and their foreheads bump awkwardly. 

 

"Shit, sorry." Grantaire mumbles, and Enjolras could easily count his eyelashes at this distance.

 

He moves to scratch the back of his neck, his go-to nervous gesture, but forgets that he only has full use of one arm, the other being trapped inside the damned shirt with Grantaire. He ends up grasping one of Grantaire's pectorals, somehow. And that isn't even a logical move for his body to make, what the fuck. Grantaire squeaks again, and tries to hide behind his hair. The kitten on Enjolras' knee that he'd forgotten about completely starts mewling for attention.

 

There is a kitten in his lap and also a Grantaire in his lap and it's so warm inside the shirt - he'd forgotten how nice it is sharing body heat - and maybe it's the realisation that half of his friends are actually still in the apartment and probably blatantly watching Enjolras make a tit of himself, or maybe it's Grantaire's breath on his neck, but something surely acts as a catalyst for the way Enjolras wraps his outside arm around Grantaire's waist and picks the kitten up with his other traitorous, pec-grabbing hand to set it on Grantaire's shoulder. Kittens love Grantaire's shoulders. Enjolras gets it.

 

"Enjolras."

 

Grantaire's breath tickles his ear. That's nice.

 

" _Enjolras_."

 

And oh, Grantaire is starting to sound a little strained.

 

"Mm?" is all he can really manage as he watches the kitten, this one's Beyoncé (did you ever doubt Courfeyrac's pet naming?), butting it's nose up against Grantaire's cheek. Enjolras thinks he might be smiling dazedly. 

 

"I'm sitting in your _lap_."

 

Grantaire is definitely sounding strained.

 

"Yeah, it's good." _Wow,_ nice one Casanova.

 

"Ex _cuse_ me? It's _good?_ "

 

"Mm. Stop freaking out. You'll upset the cat."

 

Distantly, he registers Courfeyrac indignantly muttering, "She's called _'Queen B',_ how dare you _."_

 

" _What_."

 

Poor Grantaire, he sounds distressed.

 

Enjolras is starting to feel almost _too_ comfortable and extremely lax. He wants to take a nap. He tells Grantaire this.

 

" _What_."

 

"Shhhh."

 

He moves the hand on Grantaire's waist to the base of his neck, pulling him closer so they're both leaning against the couch, Grantaire's head resting on his shoulder. The kitten mewls again, displaced, but soon settles down on Enjolras' chest, tucked under Grantaire's chin.

 

This one's warming up to him as well, it seems. He smiles. He doesn't think he's actually _stopped_ smiling in the last ten minutes.

 

Grantaire makes a whimpering sound into Enjolras' shoulder.

 

"Shhhh," he repeats, smoothing a hand through Grantaire's hair.

 

 

 

Courfeyrac is _extremely_ pleased with all the photos he ends up with. After he's finished capturing the glorious boy/kitten cuddle pile for the history books, he snaps a quick picture of Feuilly encouraging Vladimir - the fluffy black one - to play with Bahorel's man-bun (obviously a ploy to give Feuilly a reason to touch Bahorel's hair - those two, honestly) before pocketing his phone and returning to where Jehan is sprawled in a patch of sunlight with Wolf asleep on his chest.

 

 

`*`

 

 

"I can't believe you just said that, you absolute twat!"

 

" _I_ can't believe you don't recycle efficiently!"

 

"Wow. You are legitimately pissed at me over a _milk carton_."

 

"Yeah, well, if you were a more environmentally conscious, forward-thinking human, I wouldn't have to get pissed at all, pal."

 

"Pal? _Pal!_ " Grantaire's voice descends into a mockery of Enjolras' own. "Oh hey, _pal_ …" He shakes his head in what looks like disbelief. "This is bad. You're calling me pal."

 

"Fuck you and your stupid beard!"

 

"Fuck _you_ and your shitty fucking 'inspirational quote' Facebook posts."

 

Someone shoves him forward, his hands come up to steady himself on Grantaire's chest. The world goes dark for a moment. When he blinks again, it's to find Grantaire's face centimetres from his own, lips parted in surprise. Enjolras tries to backtrack, but the move only pulls Grantaire closer, because _of course._ They're sharing a fucking shirt. 

 

Grantaire lets out a frustrated growl and Enjolras maybe files the sound away for later use. Grantaire shoves his arm angrily through his one designated arm-hole, and shoots Enjolras a glare.

 

"Come on, then. Let's finish these damn dishes."

 

Enjolras _knew_ they'd been doing something before they descended into arguing about Grantaire's waste management. 

 

He holds whilst Grantaire scrubs, Grantaire holds whilst Enjolras dries. Enjolras is plastered across Grantaire's back, head hooked over his shoulder. There was absolutely no other logical position in which they could both reach the sink, pinky swear. Being able to subtly inhale the clean, intoxicating scent of Grantaire's neck while they work is just an added bonus.

 

"Getting along, dears?" That's Courfeyrac, sticking his head through the kitchen doorway and sounding positively gleeful.

 

"Fuck off, Courfeyrac." They chorus.

 

They're a pretty darn good team sometimes.

 

 

`*`

 

 

One time, at a movie night at Enjolras and Combeferre's own apartment, the shirt seems to be actively goading him.

 

Enjolras is minding his own business, returning from the kitchen with a plate of ginger nut cookies in one hand and a glass of milk in the other ( _"Enjolras, I swear to god you're an actual child."_ ), when he spots Bahorel and Feuilly at close quarters, playfully shoving each other and giggling flirtatiously. Now that's not the part Enjolras takes issue with, he's very used to _that_ part. It's the fact that they're wearing the shirt. You know, _their_ shirt. His and Grantaire's. 

 

" _What_ are you wearing _?_ " And ok, maybe the situation doesn't call for him to sound quite so scandalised.

 

"Um." Feuilly looks quite pink.

 

"Where did you even get that from? Please tell me you don't take it with you everywhere you go?" He looks at Courfeyrac, horrified.

 

"Well, uh, you see…"

 

"Darling, don't get upset." Grantaire calls from where he's sprawled on the couch. "Just think - if they're wearing, we don't have to."

 

"But I-" Enjolras clamps his mouth shut before he can finish _that_ sentence. You know, the one where he tells all his friends that he looks _forward_ to sharing a shirt with Grantaire and wants it to happen as often as possible and gosh, do you guys know how _delicious_ he smells…?

 

Bahorel extricates himself from Feuilly, looking quite put-out. (Enjolras can't help feeling slightly guilty when he sees the matching pout on Feuilly's face.)

 

He crosses to Enjolras, takes the cookies and milk from him, and shoves the shirt over his head.

 

"There. Better now?" He sounds gruff and annoyed, but the warm and infuriatingly _knowing_ look in his eye let's Enjolras know he's off the hook.

 

"There's not much point in it if there's only one person." Jehan points out, which is a very astute observation, thank you Jehan.

 

"Well, I…"

 

He's cut off by Grantaire sitting up abruptly and yelling, "LONG LIVE THE MONARCHY! INTERNALISED RACISM IS THE BEST! DOWN WITH SOCIAL EQUALITY!"

 

He stops to catch his breath. Enjolras can hear his friends laughing loudly but can only focus on the expectant look Grantaire is giving him.

 

Enjolras gapes. "You… _you..!_ "

 

"Yeah, I know. Me, _me._ "

 

He's already climbed over the back of the couch and his ducking under the shirt and shoving his head through. His hand rests lightly at Enjolras' hip, and his eyes are impossibly soft and fond. Enjolras feels very strange and floaty.

 

"Better?" Grantaire asks, lips quirking just a fraction.

 

"Much," says Enjolras, and hopes it's not too telling.

 

 

`*`

 

 

Enjolras would like to redact his previous statement. 

 

Courfeyrac is _not_ the most diabolical bastard Enjolras has ever met. That would be Cosette.

 

You know what they say, _it's all fun and games until you get handcuffed to the object of your affections._

 

They do say that, don't they?

 

It's early december and Enjolras wakes up with a bad crick in his neck and his arm bent at a very unnatural angle. 

 

He's on the floor. Grantaire is on the couch above him, dead to the world. They're also chained together by a pair of black leather handcuffs. (Enjolras does _not_ want to think about who they belong to or where they came from.)

 

And here he was, thinking that Sundays are the best day of the week. How naive.

 

Enjolras watches Grantaire sleep for the next fifteen minutes. In a completely suave, non-creepy way. He catalogues each rise and fall of his chest, notes how handsomely flushed his cheeks are. His beard is neatly trimmed and Enjolras does not stoop to that horrible cliché of wondering what it would feel like between his thighs. Except he totally does. In vivid detail. Watching him in peaceful repose, unguarded, without a wall of sarcasm or his usual careful indifference, Enjolras comes upon the realisation that Grantaire might just be his favourite person. Like, ever.

 

Sorry, Combeferre.

 

By the time Grantaire wakes, Enjolras has already single-handedly (in the literal sense) organised to meet Cosette for coffee, and has planned his outfit for the day. Because that's the sort of thing Enjolras does. Because he's a loser.

 

They brush their teeth together, hands constantly bumping between them. It should be horribly awkward, standing side by side in the mirror, brushing away, but it's really not. It's actually kind of comfortable and nice.

 

Except for the hard dig of the handcuff around his wrist, of course.

 

Also watching Grantaire struggle to brush his teeth left-handed is all kinds of adorable.

 

They encounter a few issues when it comes time to get dressed. Namely the fact that they can't take off the shirts they slept in, or put on jackets.

 

Grantaire coughs into his fist and stares resolutely at the opposite wall as Enjolras changes out of his boxers and into fresh underwear and a pair of jeans. Enjolras returns the favour and tries not the think about the fact that Grantaire is _borrowing his underwear._  

 

Enjolras ends up having to help Grantaire back into his own jeans, because they're damn tight, and the poor guy only has one fully functioning hand.

 

He does not stare at the sight of Grantaire wearing his tight maroon briefs.

 

He does not blush when Grantaire smirks and says, "take a picture, it'll last longer."

 

 

 

Cosette is waiting for them at a table by the window in her favourite café. It's drizzling outside, and with only t-shirts and scarves as protection, it's not surprising that they end up sopping, sorry looking and completely pitiful. 

 

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I forgot about clothes!" She looks genuinely remorseful, so Enjolras lets it go.

 

Grantaire is shivering a little bit beside him when they sit down. Maybe he doesn't completely let it go.

 

" _Why_?" is the first thing out of Grantaire's mouth. The look he gives Cosette is slightly wild.

 

"You'll never prove this was my doing." She declares, stirring her latte confidently.

 

"Courfeyrac live tweeted the entire thing. I think it's pretty safe for us to assume it was you." Enjolras really likes it when Grantaire uses that tone of voice. Really,  _really_ likes it. He squirms a little in his seat.

 

"Oh. In that case, it's for your own good."

 

Cosette can be a little shit sometimes.

 

"Cosette, you little shit." And ok, if there was any doubt before, Enjolras is absolutely certain now that Grantaire is his soulmate.

 

Enjolras gets momentarily distracted by his deliciously hot mocha, before tuning back in to hear Grantaire hiss, "only a _day?_ 'Only a day,' she says. What if I have other plans?"

 

Cosette snorts loudly. Sometimes Enjolras forgets that she's not quite the perfect pastel-haired princess she looks.

 

"Yeah because being handcuffed to Enjolras for a day is a real nightmare realised for you. I bet you specifically asked for this on your bloody Christmas list." She snickers into her coffee and Enjolras' heart does a little dance inside his chest.

 

"I'm 25 years old. I don't write Christmas lists."

 

" _Yeah ok_ , you keep taking yourself seriously."

 

The conversation quickly derails into increasingly ridiculous insults from there.

 

They bid goodbye to a completely unrepentant Cosette after half an hour, and Enjolras makes Grantaire awkwardly tag along for his Sunday grocery shop.

 

It actually starts snowing as they walk, because Enjolras' life is a horrible cliché. The shopfronts are all decked out for Christmas, fairy lights twinkling merrily beneath the dreary, grey sky. East London is awash with red and gold, and Grantaire keeps staring at him, looking dumbstruck. Enjolras isn't sure why, but he doesn't really mind. He's a little distracted, anyway, by the way they snow settles in Grantaire's hair, and how the lights reflect prettily in his eyes.

 

They keep getting strange looks from passersby and Enjolras' wrist is getting a little chafed.

 

"Hold my hand?" He asks, lacking his usual bravado.

 

Grantaire just carries on gazing at him in awe. "Yeah," he says, so quietly Enjolras almost misses it. "Yeah, okay."

 

Holding hands is much nicer than not holding hands, Enjolras decides.

 

 

 

Turns out Grantaire is an absolute sucker for Christmas music. When 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' comes on in the dairy aisle, Grantaire immediately begins a serenade that has Enjolras _and_ their fellow shoppers blushing furiously. He ends up twirling Enjolras through the entire Tesco, stopping for a bit of a slow dance amongst the veggies. The completely fond, adoring look Grantaire gives him as he let's himself be pulled down the confectionary aisle in search of Lebkuchen ( _"It's not Christmas without Lebkuchen, you heathen!"_ ) makes Enjolras want to melt into a puddle on the floor. He's in a bit of a daze the whole time, to be honest.

 

Grantaire grabs a santa hat as they pass the Christmas section, and shoves it over Enjolras' curls. He tries to scowl but ends up smiling, and when he takes the hat off, it goes in the basket, and not back on the shelf. Grantaire's answering grin almost has Enjolras tripping over his feet.

 

When 'Ave Maria' comes on at the check out, Enjolras finds out what a nice falsetto Grantaire has. He tightens his grip on Grantaire's hand, and ignores the insinuating smiles the girl at the counter is sending them. 

 

 

 

Courfeyrac has invited everyone over for board games that night, and the cheers and wolf-whistles that greet them when they arrive are the only things to remind Enjolras that he hasn't let go of Grantaire's hand once all day. 

 

"Oh my gosh, put this on, _put this on!_ " Joly runs toward them with the 'Get Along' shirt outstretched like a net to catch them with.

 

"But we _are_ getting along, Jolllly," Grantaire protests half-heartedly, pointing at their clasped hands. 

 

"Shhhhh!" say all their friends in unison. Enjolras knows to choose his battles.

 

Playing board games from Grantaire's lap is Enjolras' new favourite thing. Especially because Enjolras is atrocious at board games, and Grantaire is incredible, and Enjolras really enjoys the heady, wine-fuelled superiority he feels every time they win.

 

At some point, Feuilly gets frustrated with them, and tries to bury them in kittens. It's a cunning distraction, as they miss out on the next two rounds in favour of playing with them. They seem to love the tent-like interior of their shared shirt.

 

Enjolras catches himself nuzzling up to Grantaire's neck at one point, but can't find it within himself to be embarrassed. 

 

They fall asleep sharing an armchair, and wake up sans-cuffs. Enjolras finds himself missing the excuse they gave him for holding Grantaire's hand.

 

 

`*`

 

 

They're forced into the shirt four more times in the lead up to Christmas.

 

Once when Enjolras snaps at Grantaire for having fallen asleep earlier when they'd all been talking politics at the Musain, only to find out later that he'd been covering shifts for a girl he works with whose mother had recently fallen ill and was therefore understandably exhausted. Enjolras feels like a right dick after that one. 

 

The next time is after Courfeyrac has decorated his apartment and is far too keen for everyone to come over and see it. Grantaire is in a foul mood from the beginning of the night, and Enjolras is therefore feeling twitchy, annoyed and defensive. So when the inevitable verbal smack-down comes, no one is particularly surprised. 

 

Grantaire remains irritable and sullen even once they've been forced into the shirt. Enjolras takes it personally. They're both at their worst. Proud, waspish, stubborn. 

 

Enjolras' eyes are sore from all the exasperated eye-rolling he's been doing. Grantaire's had far too much cider. They find themselves under the mistletoe.

 

Fucking _Courfeyrac_. Of course it had to be in the doorway to the kitchen. The one that _everybody_ uses, all the time.

 

Grantaire scoffs and makes as if to walk off, and Enjolras should probably just follow him. Nobody else has spotted them, they'll get away with it. However, Enjolras can't help but feel cheated. They're caught under the mistletoe. Grantaire _has_ to kiss him. Those are the rules. He hauls Grantaire back in before the shirt can drag Enjolras away from the doorway, and presses their lips together before he can talk himself out of it.

 

Grantaire sags into him, and Enjolras heart soars. It's a longer kiss than is probably justifiable, but Enjolras doesn't particularly care. He keeps meaning to pull away, but then Grantaire whimpers or nips at his bottom lip and Enjolras is _gone._  

 

And that's the thing, isn't it?

 

He is completely, absolutely, 100% gone for Grantaire. 

 

It's only when Bahorel starts laughing loud enough to shake the rafters at something Bossuet has just said that they pull apart.

 

Grantaire looks stunned.

 

"Oi, where's my fucking cider, mate?" Feuilly calls over his shoulder, twisting around in his seat to raise an eyebrow at them.

 

Grantaire whimpers pathetically.

 

"Just a second," Enjolras says, and shit, his voice is embarrassingly rough. Feuilly doesn't seem to notice, just leans back into Bahorel's chest and laughs along with the rest of them at Bossuet's story. Something involving both Joly's dad and a vespa. It's not really on the top of Enjolras' list of priorities.

 

He herds Grantaire back into the kitchen, grabs a cider for Feuilly from the fridge, grabs another bottle of red for Courfeyrac, because Enjolras is a good friend, and if he pushes Grantaire up against the counter and kisses him breathless for a few seconds, well, that's nobodies business.

 

 

`*`

 

 

Grantaire is very subdued around him for the next few weeks, which is problematic for Enjolras because in order to get him back into the shirt (which is distressingly all Enjolras can think about, constantly distracting him from actually important things like the food drive for the homeless or finding Combeferre an unbeatable present), there needs to be some sort of conflict.

 

Not that Enjolras wants to seek out conflict, per se. He just wants Grantaire to be forced into close proximity with him. Which, yep, that might've been some slightly problematic phrasing.

 

Maybe he just wants to kiss him again.

 

Across the room, Grantaire bites his lip as he laughs, and yes, Enjolras definitely wants to kiss him again.

 

They never do share the shirt that night, but when they all doze off in the wee hours of the morning, the two of them have somehow ended up cuddled together on the couch. Enjolras presses a soft kiss to the corner of Grantaire's mouth just as they're about to fall asleep.

 

" _Hm? What was tha' for?_ " Grantaire's voice is small and sleepy, and Enjolras really needs to just be his boyfriend already, please and thank you.

 

"Nothing. Shh. Go to sleep."

 

" _Wait,_ " and then he's blinking up at Enjolras' blearily, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw, and when he leans up to kiss Enjolras sweetly, everything else in his head falls away. The kiss sends him off to sleep in a contended haze, warm and serene in Grantaire's arms.

 

 

 

He wakes up on the floor, having been thrown off the edge of the couch during the night. It's a little jarring in wake of the night before.

 

Grantaire is flustered and embarrassed when he realises he's shoved Enjolras off the bloody settee, but they don't mention the kissing. Just like Bahorel and Feuilly never mention the kissing.

 

Enjolras tries not to be disappointed.

 

 

 

Three days before Christmas, Enjolras is making tea in Courfeyrac's kitchen, Vladimir looking on with a curious tilt to his tiny kitten head.

 

He hears Grantaire come in, humming something upbeat and festive under his breath. (He's to find out soon that it's 'Sparklejollytwinklejingley' from Elf, when Courfeyrac takes to singing it _every hour_.)

 

"That for me?" he asks, coming up beside him with a smirk on his face. The sight of him makes Enjolras' toes curl.

 

"Yeah, here. Two sugars."

 

Grantaire's smile softens into something warm and adoring, and he leans in to capture Enjolras' lips in a kiss that leaves him trembling. Then there's another, slow and torturous, before he retreats entirely.

 

"Thanks. You make the best tea."

 

Then he's gone, and Enjolras needs to sit down and just take a minute.

 

 

`*`

 

 

The following night, Enjolras is pontificating about youth employment when he accidentally headbutts Grantaire due to his overly passionate gesticulating. He does a lot of hair tossing when he gets fired up, according to Courfeyrac.

 

Grantaire gets a pretty intense nosebleed and Combeferre confiscates the Get Along shirt while Enjolras is busy apologising and fussing over Grantaire's bloodied face. It's an unfortunate night. Combeferre puts a ban on the shirt indefinitely.

 

Enjolras can't help but feel a little miffed.

 

 

 

The next morning, Enjolras is meeting Feuilly for breakfast. It's Christmas Eve and Courfeyrac is in high spirits. Which is about the same as anybody else's high spirits on crack. There is tinsel in three different colours draped over Enjolras when he wakes up.

 

Grantaire has spent the night too, and when Enjolras corners him in the kitchen to apologise about the headbutting incident some more, he earns himself a shy, hesitant kiss. It's the best Christmas gift he's had in years. 

 

Courfeyrac prances into the kitchen then, sporting reindeer antlers and reindeer print lounge pants, and the moment is gone.

 

Enjolras rectifies this by dragging Grantaire with him when he leaves to meet Feuilly. 

 

Grantaire doesn't seem to mind. In fact, when Enjolras starts carefully wrapping him up in a scarf so he won't catch his death outside, Grantaire kisses him again. It's short and chaste, but still makes stars dance behind his eyes. He's very spoiled. He tells Grantaire this, and steals another kiss when Grantaire blushes.

 

Enjolras would very much like to get used to this.

 

 

 

Feuilly raises his eyebrows when they walk into the café hand in hand, but his surprise quickly morphs into a sly grin.

 

"Grantaire, didn't think I'd see you here." He definitely sounds like he's insinuating something. That smug bastard.

 

They talk over coffee and caramel slice and the lebkuchen that Grantaire orders for him because Grantaire _orders things for him now_ , and remembers trivial things like Enjolras' favourite holiday season confections. Definitely a keeper, this one.

 

Enjolras is giddy with something, and somehow he doesn't think it's Christmas cheer.

 

 

`*`

 

 

And then Christmas day happens.

 

Courfeyrac is hosting, because _the kittens_ , of course. Enjolras, Combeferre and Jehan are all there early, helping to prepare food. Cosette arrives with a perfectly glazed leg of ham, crisscrossed with cloves and cherries, and Marius in tow, holding a plate of homemade mince pies. That he made himself. Because Marius really is a gift to the world.

 

When Grantaire arrives, he's already quite… _merry_. Enjolras frowns, but doesn't comment. He does not want to rock the boat on Christmas of all days.

 

But then Grantaire drifts over to the opposite side of the room with Bossuet and Joly and doesn't even glance Enjolras' way. The only contact they've had is the obligatory 'Merry Christmas' Grantaire had deigned to offer before sweeping past into the kitchen to deliver the champagne.

 

After the fantastic week he's had, Enjolras is reluctant to let it get to him. But it does. And he stews. He watches Grantaire laugh at Joly's jokes and dance a tipsy waltz around the living room with Bossuet and exchange presents with Eponine whilst she perches in his lap and feeds him Thornton's toffee.

 

He must've done something wrong, but he can't remember anything that might've led to this sudden one-eighty. 

 

It doesn't take much for it all to bubble up and fizz over. Only a kitten, a bauble, and a tipsy Courfeyrac.

 

Grantaire is sitting by the tree, in a festive sweater that lights up. His hair is swept back into a low, messy bun and he's scratching a hand through his beard when Enjolras corners him.

 

"Why are you avoiding me?" Straight to the point has always been his favoured approach.

 

"The world doesn't revolve around your almighty being, dearest."

 

" _Again_ with the endearments."

 

"Oh, fuck off. Don't even start."

 

Enjolras picks Herodotus up from where he's been winding between his legs. The poor thing looks a little timid. Tensions _are_ high in this corner of the room, that's for sure.

 

The kitten mewls and twists in his arms, escaping to the floor. It immediately leaps for Grantaire's lap, and as soon as Grantaire picks the little guy up, he reaches out to tap Grantaire twice on the nose, as though in reprimand. Grantaire looks appropriately chastised. 

 

"Look, are you pissed off about something else or did _I_ do something wrong because…"

 

"Fuck, just because you're under the impression that I think the sun shines out your arse…"

 

"Well, don't you?"

 

Both Grantaire and the kitten glare up at him, and ok, he probably deserves it.

 

"Just leave it," Grantaire sighs, scratching the kitten behind it's ears. "It's really for the best if you just leave this whole thing alone, ok? I'm trying to cut you loose here, Enj. Help me out."

 

Grantaire is resolutely not meeting his eyes.

 

"What? Cut me- I don't want to be _cut loose_. What are you even…"

 

"Ok, let me clear this up for you real quick. This thing is just a waste of your time, and of my time. I really need you to just stop doing what you've been doing. Can we _please_ drop it and go back to being witty, sarcastic arch nemeses?"

 

Enjolras is startled, and completely confused. His head is a garbled mess, and he's not sure what to say, so he goes with, "I won't give you your fucking present, then."

 

He doesn't mean for it to come out so petulant, but Grantaire's head snaps up and he's finally meeting his eyes, so Enjolras counts it as a win.

 

"You got me a present?" Grantaire asks, incredulous.

 

"Of course I got you a bloody present. You're my…" he flails, "My, _you know" -_ "Nope, I really don't" - "my… thing."

 

Christ, this conversation is a train wreck.

 

"What did you get me?" Grantaire persists, the kitten now sitting on his head and batting it's paws at tree ornaments.

 

"I told you you're not getting it anymore."

 

"Oh, come off it."

 

"It's not like _you_ got _me_ anything," he says, because at heart, Enjolras is a giant stroppy baby.

 

" _Enjolras_ , I swear, you are the biggest twat I've ever known. Christ almighty." Grantaire hands him a perfectly wrapped present, all done up with a proper ribbon and bow. There's a little tag attached that reads _'Merry Christmas. You're a terrible cook. Sorry. Truth hurts. Maybe this'll help? I'll even give you lessons. You know, if you want.'_

 

Inside the box, Enjolras finds a cookbook titled 'Easy Recipes For The Cook Who Keeps Setting Things On Fire'. Which, rude. Also where does one find such a book? It's almost frighteningly specific with it's target demographic. Maybe it was intended for pyromaniacs looking to expand their culinary horizons? Probably not.

 

He reads the card again. Grantaire has very beautiful handwriting.

 

"Turn it over," Grantaire instructs, sounding resigned.

 

Enjolras does.

 

_'You're really stupid sometimes, but that doesn't mean I love you any less.'_

 

Enjolras forgets how to breath.

 

Courfeyrac chooses that moment to pirouette toward them holding a glass of eggnog. He proceeds to step on a glittery red bauble and go arse over tit onto the floor beside Grantaire. The flashy sweater ends up covered in eggnog, which the kitten obligingly begins to clean up for them.

 

"Woah, that was rad," says Courfeyrac, from where his face is smushed into the carpet.

 

Enjolras escapes into the kitchen. Maybe just looking at Combeferre will instantly transform him into a calm, rational human being. You know, like through osmosis or something.

 

If Enjolras doesn't snog Grantaire senseless before the day is out, he thinks he might die. So he does the only thing he was truly born to do. He stirs shit up.

 

He goads Grantaire into a debate about carbon emissions or something in that vein, he's not paying toomuch attention, to be honest. He's much more interested in the way Grantaire's t-shirt clings to his chest (the ridiculous eggnoggy sweater has been removed, thank the heavens) and the way Grantaire bites his lip as he watches Enjolras speak.

 

It does the trick, though. Grantaire makes a scathing quip about Enjolras being a stupid idealist, and Enjolras retaliates by calling Grantaire a cynical layabout who doesn't believe in anything. You know, standard procedure.

 

Combeferre's obviously been hitting the mulled wine pretty hard, because he doesn't protest when a Joly drunkenly tugs the 'Get Along' shirt down over their heads whilst humming a truly terrible rendition of 'Frosty the Snowman'.

 

Grantaire smells like cinnamon and cloves, and Enjolras doesn't even bother with his sleeve, just wraps both of his arms around Grantaire's waist and burrows in.

 

Christmas is suddenly looking up.

 

 

Cosette makes a few unsubtle comments about PDA during dinner, which Enjolras responds to by settling himself fully in Grantaire's lap and finger feeding him roast potatoes. Grantaire doesn't protest, but he does blush a lot. Enjolras would very much like to kiss him.

 

And because apparently Grantaire loves him even when he's being stupid, Enjolras has a sneaking suspicion that he might return the sentiment.

 

The hand sneaking up the back of his shirt also seems very encouraging, but who's to say.

 

 

It's only later when they're outside sharing a cigarette, huddled together under the shirt to save themselves from the cold winter wind, that it happens.

 

Grantaire's stubbing the butt out on the balcony railing, and Enjolras is feeling hot all over. There's a clench to his muscles that's such heady anticipation and it sets him thrumming. He can feel Grantaire's thigh, firm between his legs, and craves more. He pushes himself up against Grantaire, feeling inexplicably needy all of a sudden. He keeps pressing closer until he can hear Grantaire's breath catch and stutter, can feel the frantic pounding of his heart. Enjolras exhales with a small smile, shakily. 

 

The air between them is charged, dizzying, and Enjolras grasps at Grantaire's hips to anchor himself. He has no idea what he's doing. At this point, he's just taking cues from his own body. Arching up further when he wants more contact, breathing in deeply when he catches the scent of Grantaire's body wash, holding his lips a hairsbreadth away from Grantaire's, trading air. It's only when their eyes meet, and he sees just how dark Grantaire's have gone, most of that stormy blue lost to blown pupils, that Enjolras surges forward to kiss him.

 

And _oh_ , it is _everything._

 

He feels like he's shaking apart, like he'll die if he doesn't get closer, doesn't kiss deeper, doesn't crawl inside Grantaire completely. There are spider-like shivers racing up and down his spine, and Grantaire tastes like mulled wine and peppermint and Enjolras keeps making the most unbecoming noises but he just _does not care._

 

Grantaire bites down on his lip and Enjolras' legs give out.

 

Grantaire steadies him with an arm around his waist, and rests their foreheads together. He's panting slightly, and Enjolras flushes with pride.

 

"God I love this fucking shirt." Grantaire's voice is low and wrecked.

 

Enjolras simply hums in agreement as he leans back in.

 

 

`*`

 

 

He doesn't mind Courfeyrac's parties much at all anymore. Not now that he can spend them making out with Grantaire, sprawled in his lap and so very pleased with his life. 

 

And when they walk in on New Years Day to see Eponine and Montparnasse on the couch wearing their 'Get Along' shirt and looking mutinous, well, Enjolras thinks they've earned the right to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'pal' line is stolen straight out of 27 dresses. Because James Marsden is just so important.
> 
> Also this is such schmoop, but I can't even bring myself to apologise.
> 
> But I genuinely am sorry for making Enjolras such a fucking loser. Oh my god. He's an embarrassment even to me.


End file.
